Chapter One: A Friend of a Friend
February 16th, 2018
With my back to the wall and my eyes to the door, I sat in complete silence.
Part of me always knew it was only a matter of time before I ended up locked in a padded room. Lucky for me, I wasn’t strapped to the bed or cozied into a straightjacket. After everything I’d already seen, it was a miracle I wasn’t toes up pushing daisies.
When they brought me in, I took stock of the bleak hospital corridors and the sterile environment. Unlike the owners of those desperate shrieks that occasionally pierced the oppressive silence, I wasn’t a patient here. And I wasn’t planning on sticking around.
I had managed to unwind the metal springs under my cot and fashion them into a pathetic shiv--a small insurance device that I hoped would never see the light of day. As far as self-defense tools go, it was a half-step up from fists and miles removed from my old Beretta. Nonetheless, having something to focus my attention on gave me a tiny measure of relief, like maybe the plan wasn’t spiralling out of my control all over again.
Hours passed, but I never dared drop my guard. I knew full well that if I’d been double crossed then the next time that door opened I’d be looking at my own killer. Or, if I got “lucky” again, my victim. But Lady Luck has a way of leaving you high and dry when you need her most.
I had done everything I could. This next part was out of my hands. I was instructed to sit tight and wait until three in the morning, but there was no way of keeping track of time. Didn’t matter to me. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I’d wanted to. I was jonesing for a nicotine fix, swimming through memories, and trying to figure out how the hell the situation had gotten so far away from me.
In the world of PI work, it’s imperative that things don’t get personal. You collect your pay, uncover the dirt, and move on to the next customer.
I played this game like Rain Man at the blackjack table until six months ago, when I got a phone call from my nephew that would change my perception of the job—and the world—for good. I thought I saw weird shit when I was spying on Mr. Wallace, who favored women’s underwear and a horse mask when getting his jollies off. Then I went back to the place that had borne me, the place I thought I had left behind twenty years ago. The town that had swallowed my family into its bottomless abyss and yanked me back in as if I were still the eighteen year old kid waiting at the bus stop with a one way ticket out.
I lost the first round. When the stakes were high and the bases were loaded, I choked. I couldn’t find Vanessa. But I knew she was still out there. And I was ready to burn the place to the ground if I had to. I wasn’t going to lose this time.
I heard the snick of the deadbolt. I was on my feet, poised to attack before the door creaked open.
His eyes took in my crouched stance and the pathetic attempt for a weapon in my hand. He laughed. “Put that away, Eric. We got work to do.”
The thought crossed my mind: I could kill him right now. It was tempting, for sure. But I’d already thought through every possible scenario, and the only good one required that I leave him breathing. For now.
Middleton took a step back and tipped an imaginary hat. “After you, detective.” I’ll admit, it was a ridiculous plan. There’s crazy. Then there’s crazy. And then there’s trusting a psychopath like Spencer Middleton. But I was all out of options if I ever wanted to see my niece alive again.
You know what they say about desperate times.
Chapter One February 2nd, 2018
I was back in New Orleans, licking my wounds and trying to figure out where the whole thing had turned upside down. I underestimated the enemy, waltzed right in there without a plan, without a clue, nothing on me but a go bag and a bottle of whiskey. I was out of my element and out of my league, and if it weren’t for pure dumb luck I’d be worm food right now.
I last heard from someone claiming to be Vanessa a month ago. When Jamie listened to the tapes, he confirmed that it was her.
But I already knew that. Knew it down to my bones. She was out there. Alive.
The question is why? For collateral? For research? As a fucked up way for Spencer to get even further into my head?
“You’re doing it again.”
“Can it, kid. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jamie sighed in annoyance, then walked over to join me at the table, where I was hunched over the hundreds of documents I had compiled about the shithole of a town we had both just escaped by the skin of our teeth. I was tapping my foot to a rhythmless beat, the source of Jamie’s irritation and, I could see now, concern.
“What’s your plan?” Jamie asked, sitting down and sliding his chair closer to mine.
“The plan is to mind your own. You’re fifteen years old, for Chrissake.” I pushed my fingers through my hair, trying to drag myself back into the now.
Jamie cut his eyes to me. “This is my business. She’s my sister! I deserve to know what’s going on.”
That’s the problem with teenagers. They think they’re entitled to everything.
“Look, Jamie,” I started, softer, “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but this is way above your pay grade. You need to study for your classes and keep your nose clean.”
I could see that didn’t satisfy him, but I had enough on my plate without having to add teenage angst to the list of troubles. That’s all I needed—another disappearance on my hands.
“But you definitely think Vanessa’s still there?” The fear, and hope, was evident in his voice.
“If I didn’t, do you think I’d be poring over phone books and church bulletins? She’s there, alright. And I’m going to find her.”
The unspoken question hung in the air between us, palpable and heavy: would I get there in time?
In New Orleans, time seems to move slower. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the people. I used this to my advantage, working feverishly to connect the dots between Vanessa’s disappearance and the town’s apparent complicity. The further into the rabbit hole I went, the more questions I had. And the more questions that arose, the angrier I got. I’m used to things not making sense--it’s part of the human condition. But underneath these actions, a pattern generally emerges. This town didn’t have a pattern. Didn’t have a thread I could pull to unravel the ball of yarn in front of me. I was going to have to use every tool at my disposal.
“Jamie, when did your mother get sent away?”
“Which time?”
Pretty sure I’ve qualified for the shittiest uncle of the year award. No wonder Jamie didn’t recognize this town for the fun house shit show it was. He lived it every day.
“Let’s start from the beginning and go from there.”
“I was about twelve the first time she went apeshit. I mean, she had always been off, but Dad dying made it even worse. We were in church, and when the pastor asked if anyone wanted to come to the Lord, Mom grabbed Vanessa and hauled her up to the front of the pulpit, and started ranting about how Christ couldn’t save her, since she didn’t have a soul.” Jamie’s voice was void of emotion. “She was gone for about two weeks after the incident. We didn’t go to church anymore after that.”
Jesus rollerskating Christ.
“How about the second time?”
“It was a couple of years ago. Mom started talking about how the government was planting ideas in her head; began accusing people of being agents. She kept a list with all the people in on it. Made a scene in the grocery store.”
“A list? What did it look like? Do you still have it?”
I already knew the answer. This wasn’t a movie; this was real life and that list was long gone. If I wanted those names, I’d have to find them myself. And if they had actually been accurate, Miranda wouldn’t be locked up in the loony bin. She’d be six feet under.
Jamie confirmed my suspicions. “I don’t know. She was batshit crazy.”
“Did she have any more….incidents?” I braced myself for the answer.
“Yeah. The last time. Only it really wasn’t a scene. She just….went inside herself. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t bathe. Vanessa had to call the hospital that time.”
It was at that point I realized why people had no problem believing why Vanessa had skipped town. Daughter of a raving lunatic? Mom finally sent away, and a big world out for exploring. If I hadn’t heard from Vanessa with my own ears...hadn’t experienced the pure, unadulterated crazy that goes hand in hand with that place, I would probably have believed it too.
I picked up the phone.
Most detectives have a tech guy. A car man. A gun runner. A cleanup crew. I have one person, and she does it all. I know her as Roach.
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Honey, all you ever ask for is favors. But favors are free and easy, and I’m neither one of those things.” Roach’s thick Creole accent was delivered with a throaty laugh and a tone that brokered no arguments.
She had a point. After all, I don’t work for free either. But cases haven’t exactly been rolling in since I shifted my focus, and I was short on cash.
I don’t know her real name, but Roach earned her current moniker. She’s practically indestructible, she’ll outlive all of us, and any time the police turn the lights on in one of her places of “business,” she’s gone as soon as you see her. Roach stands over six feet tall when she isn’t wearing heels, which in my experience has been never, and likes to stare down her nose at the men who piss her off. If you’re on her good side, she’s as sweet as a honeybun. And if you’re not, one of those looks has the ability to shrivel one’s balls until they retreat into his body. I liked to stay on her good side.
“In that case, I’m willing to make a deal. I’ve been dealing with family issues, but I’ll work for these favors.”
“A working boy is my favorite kind of boy,” she purred.
What have I gotten myself into?
Turns out Roach wanted a regular trade-off. She had a girl whose piece-of-shit ex had gotten behind on child support, then gone off the map. I was to find the guy, and Roach would handle the rest. In the back of my mind, I had no doubt that Roach could have located this asshole herself, but was throwing me a bone for old time’s sake. I found him a couple of days later playing happy family in a nearby city with his wife and two and a half children.
I arranged to meet with Roach to divulge this information. Both of us knew that phones were unreliable and prone to bugs. We convened in her favorite club, a speakeasy off the beaten path furnished with a burlesque stage and enough velvet to cross into bordello territory. Roach owned the place, and made sure the drinks were strong and the music was swinging. And when she entered, it wasn’t through the back door, but as the announcer of the upcoming show. “Bullets and Broads” sounded captivating, but it wasn’t on my radar for the night.
She sashayed up to my booth with a Moscow mule in hand. I rose to meet her, because those are the rules in Roach’s house. Roach, as always, looked magnificent. She favored bright colors and sumptuous fabrics, and this night was outfitted in the plumes of several showy birds. We sat down across from each other, and I handed her my surveillance of the bastard in question. She didn’t bother looking at it. She was too busy looking at me instead. She slowly took in my haggard appearance and the way my clothes fit too loose on my emaciated body.
“What train dragged you behind it, sugar?” She batted her false eyelashes at me, but underneath the laughter was a note of concern.
I contemplated a snappy line and my typical diversion tactics, but decided on the truth instead. It tumbled out of me, my words rushed and raw. She sipped her drink and fanned herself as my story took form. When at last it was finished, she held up her hand for our waitress, a young woman whose name tag read Celia, and ordered two whiskeys, straight up. We sat in silence until they arrived, then she threw the first one back, and sat with the second one in front of her.
“If I didn’t know you better, Eric Riggin, I’d throw you out my club for being a few floats shy of a Mardi Gras parade. But you don’t favor exaggerations, and I don’t keep the company of fools.” She looked around the club, considering her next words carefully. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you concerned about anyone other than numero uno, Riggin, and I like that look on you. Maybe I’m a sucker for a lost lamb, or maybe I’m just a sucker. But I want to help you.”
For a single moment, I felt relief wash over me, then I squelched it down. “Roach, I didn’t come looking for sympathy or a handout. Hell, I don’t know what I’m looking for. This is dangerous and twisted and doesn’t make any sense. I have no idea what I’m going to do, and no idea how I’m going to accomplish it.”
She angled a glance in my direction over her glass. “Well, then, it’s a good thing you came here, because I happen to know people who are experts in the realm of the lost. Stick with me, honey, and we’ll uncover your Vanessa.” She finished her drink, then set the tumbler down on the table with a loud clink. “What do you need?”
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Credits
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